


(Don’t Forget!) You’re the Present

by umuguri



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, haikyuu!! - Freeform, make it drop!!, to the top!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umuguri/pseuds/umuguri
Summary: Sakusa has left you for many years, deleted every text with you asking him about his days, avoided your calls and your voicemails that offer a coffee chat around his block. He’s left no threads behind, no traces of your friendship for you to track. Your friendship is like a polished crime scene—any “evidence“ was left without any true traces of fingerprints against the door handle and any cobweb of DNA of Sakusa’s presence in your life was thrown to the trash. He’s always been good at cleaning up messes—except, he forgets about how you alway tie the loose ends.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi & Reader, Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	(Don’t Forget!) You’re the Present

Not Sakusa’s failure of a love-life screaming in his face as he is forced into taking care of a seven-year-old who happens to spit gum under school-tables. 

When Kormoi happens to grab the phone and dial a number, Sakusa apparently reins in the favorite of the former’s contact list and seems to be the freest, unpaid babysitter. And apparently, Kormoi had to be a 22-year-old idiot without a condom or friend that would sacrifice their souls for a seven-year-old child--a shame, really since Sakusa thought at least someone would have liked Kormoi enough to deal with the pain of a baby. 

Children themselves have never been any goal of Sakusa’s, never truly an object he’d aspire for in his mundane love-life that was reserved for him and Oxiclean. Never has Sakusa really yearned to hold another child that could throw up on his shoes and color the walls with yellow sharpies— because they only appear as another hassle in life, in a career. Unnecessary messes and unnecessary pain of hearing a child remark on one’s failures as a parent-- sprinkled in with the dents on the family-car and damage on each other’s self-esteem.

Everything appears to be a new mess, a new day of tantrums and heartaches with parenthood that makes Sakusa turn away from the idea of children. Whenever he rolled up to see a new morning as a sixteen-year old, his pillow briefly stank the smell of tears and failed dreams.

Whatever, a week to last with one kid. He endured through worse, had kids purposefully kick dirt on Sakusa’s shoes and throw chunks of mud on the side of the roads onto new khaki pants in grade school. Sakusa’s blunt yet passive, passive to the past and blunt to the current. No reason to be lingering onto the memories of the past that bare as a stain in life, and no purpose in finding the light when everything appeared to be a mess of dark scribbles of childhood.

(People are carriers of germs, random placements of value Sakusa has numbered in his head on who to call and who will answer the call in seconds. They are parasites of his past, the time he’s wasted chatting with, and hold the discomfort of memories for the moments he have acted stupid, a fool. Children happen to be naive in reality and will--unfortunately-- take the time in approaching strangers.)

-

Breathe in and out-- three more days to go Sakusa and his mom didn’t raise no bitch.  
Come on, get your head in the game, Troy!  
Children are assholes made by God and Sakusa wants to cry from the experience. Kormoi should really ask for a refund if birth control was on the receipt with the failure of safe sex-education as the tax. 

Akihiro, despite his name, became a letdown in terms of not being able to listen despite his ear privileges, but some of us need to write the college essay in the mundane struggle of being a failure. Not everyone is a scouted athlete, and Sakusa’s willing to confront the reality of being better than others—narcism is acceptable against seven-year-olds who spill milk on carpets. 

Rushing in the mall and going through the decked halls, chasing Akihiro in Old Navy to pick up the Christmas-ugly sweaters that dejectedly fall flat on the floor, and being sandwiched between two senior ladies who look at Sakusa thinking he’s a teen parent should not make be on the list of his top 10 worst memories (but the moment unfortunately does). Akihiro is asking to buy another gallon of baby food (because baby food apparently tastes good) and further fails to help Sakusa prove his innocence in virginity and loneliness as he hears the whispers of “teen parent” and “single dad” follow. (What was the six years of never creating emotional bonds with other people for—especially if everyone’s walking around in and assuming Sakusa was getting girls on the daily. Being lonely is a choice for some people!) Despite how much Sakusa yearns to pull his hair out, get a pimple from the stress of everything, and cry today.

Which is a strange idea to Sakusa because he does not cry—after years and years of disappointment, he does not cry from a simple middle-school made self-promise with you. 

-

One: Sakusa remembers his feet shifting in the rain, waiting for the sign of his parents car to pick up as the pavement is masked with mud and puddles. 

Two: Three boys from middle school came snickering by, grabbing pieces of mud to see white-uniform shirts get spiraled by the dirt. 

Not to seem like a complete narcissist, but young Sakusa was known, revered around the campus as the spitting image of intimation and fear. Known to man as a powerful asshole who strewn looks of disgust and with weirdly flexible wrists that allowed Sakusa to fake injuries and evade football season. 

Lots loathed Sakusa—not for him being a prodigy in volleyball but for slapping another kid’s hands away and mentioning the dirt under their nails. Sakusa was never hated for being a prodigy, for being a one hit-wonder at the school—no but instead because Sakusa is not a people person. 

He would not cry when the school hamster died, only remarking on how it’s dead carcass releases more chemicals in the air and for the class budget to be spent on buying new air fresheners. He would never offer to bandage a scrape for you when you fall on the sidewalk, only mentioning how the blood and dirt could contaminate his own skin. He does not pick up a person that has fallen to the ground after being smacked by a basketball, the dirt only being a reason for resistance on why Sakusa should help and makes him contemplate on survival of the fittest.

Sakusa is not hated for being special—he’s hated for being weird, emotionless. He will never be the knight in shining armor that comfortingly saves you from bullies and does not expect anything in return.

Never will he expect anything because of his parents being rich as being rich means preserving your wealth, watching it tower in banks and multiply into millions in the snaps of seconds. Never will Sakusa wish for tangibly anything when he knows everything can be stripped away (power, fame, a title) with people being so eager to see another’s downfall. 

People—bullies—ask for weakness and dissolving any signs of you being something. His father always etched in Sakusa’s mind that being something (regardless of the infamy that may follow) would matter more than nothing. 

Sakusa holds infamy, he holds the class’s hatred so expecting anything other than maltreatment is wishing for nothing. There holds Sakusa, one’s throne filled with gold and boundless riches until another kid can knock him down temporarily. He never wishes, never needing wishes to uplift his spirits, but you do. 

When the three boys throw mud at Sakusa, getting some into his hair, you angrily take their hands. You forget about the mud in their hands and slap one in the face, a comedic smack that echoes through is ears and frightens his heart. You get spattered by germs, dirt, messes, but you keep fighting for Sakusa—you keep thriving, enduring each skirmish for him. 

Not only that, but you keep fighting even when disgust hits your face, keep moving with the wheels in your head churning on what next play you can perform, and keep dodging each player and stripping pawns off the game-board. 

Even if defeat seems to be in the eye of the inevitable, even if you seem outnumbered among the arms and muscles, your eyes are hit with glimmers of mischief, with calculations that Sakusa cannot decipher. You wipe off the grim on your fingers, wipe off the signs of the battle you are facing, and leave traces of your smeared blood from successful punches on the sidewalk to look at straight Sakusa with eyes that pierce his soul. 

“Do you trust me?” You slip out as your backpack blocks some mud and splashes of dirty puddles for him.

And, in most times, no, Sakusa does not trust random stranger-like classmates who decide to invade and on personal matters—most times Sakusa scoffs at the idea of someone swiping him off his feet to be any form of a “savior” to him. Most times, Sakusa hates to see clichés in real life, hates to see Genies making unattainable, unearned wishes come true and hates the reminders of Aladdin’s: A Whole New World play in his head with water splashing around on carpets. 

But maybe he’s been Jasmine for too long, stuck in the cage of being afraid to fly on an unknown carpet ride. Maybe he has been too sheltered, too afraid of what the world may truly be with the typical walking down the streets who yearn for wishes, dreams. Maybe he has been too afraid of not knowing, too afraid of opening the doors to peer at the dirty streets of town instead of running to reach the grassy lands with flowers that peak once a season.

With all his maybes and what-if’s in the world, only little can change now in the tiny hands of a middle-schooler that an occasional leap of faith cannot hurt too badly. 

So he looks back at you, eyes seemingly still to only offer a short and simple, “Yes. I trust you.”

Instead of snickering about becoming poor, snickering about how Paris Hilton is revoking his family’s invitation to a new party, Sakusa follows the unknown of you pulling his hand into the rain and running away. 

He forgets about the car that is supposed to be picking him up, forgets about his Gucci-gifted watch ticking on how volleyball practice is about to begin. He forgets and replaces memories for you—sure, you being his priority is temporary but volleyball practice will happen tomorrow even without Sakusa spiking the ball today. Your presence is temporary, but he knows your figure and hand are engraved in his mind for an eternity. 

You two are only running, running under his jacket and your backpacks leaving behind small bits of worries.

-

From suffering with Bokuto and Atsumu, losing brain cells might be an understatement when the two paired together definitely caused Sakusa a concussion at some point. Akihiro frankly was being unhelpful in the #2020 saving Sakusa’s skull GoFundMe when the child accidentally threw a basketball at Sakusa’s head before screaming along the lines of grinches never winning. 

To be frank: Nothing is cutting out for Sakusa, nothing in life truly is, and he’s currently looking for Kormoi to ask if losing his firstborn child really matters when people as sexually active as the pair (Kormoi and his wife) exist. But, in the grand scheme of the world, Sakusa does not want to get sued nor killed without first being on the Olympic 2021’s list. With that hope, at least Sakusa would be remembered as a tragic memory or something along the lines. 

If he did die, donating organs seemed to be charity work even after being deceased, like a kiss-ass move to Jesus in the rush of forgiving your sins and by allowing another to take your pitiful heart. (And, as one of Atsumu’s many texts have said, “don’t leave the team without putting me on your Will first!!”) 

When all hope seems to be lost in the abyss, when Sakusa seems to be praying to Jesus (asking for Hell to be good with Satan as a sugar daddy), he hears the voice of a lipsy-kid ring in the gift wrapping-donation section. 

“Do you like wrapping all those gifts and toys?”

“Well, yeah. It’s something I picked up when I was a bit older than your age—I always loved playing with paper and seeing the new designs of each paper.”

“Do you ever get to open the toys and play with them beforehand?”

“No? I don’t really. Doesn’t that ruin wrapping new gifts that feel made just for you?”

“Well what’s the point of doing things for free—isn’t that how people become poor?”

Sakusa tries to ignore the shock that flickers through his body on Akihiro’s modeling after the former. His heart swells, knowing that his charm has rubbed a bit off on Akihiro by how the person sitting at the table freezes and stares at the boy’s snappy retort. 

Not to mention how the person’s jacket reminds Sakusa of the one he bought in middle school, stripped with navy blues and reds that were meant to connect the embroidery with the name of each student. Thanks to the optometrist verifying that Sakusa is the embodiment of 20/20 vision, he attempts to steal a better glance at the nameplate. 

On the spot meant to be scribbled with the name of the owner plasters Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

His name seems to be screaming back at him. What was his middle school jacket doing here?

Sakusa Kiyoomi.  
Laser vision on the court meant nothing if Sakusa could not piece together the fragments of life.

Sakusa Kiyoomi.  
He blinks and tries to trace his memory—Sakusa has only once offered his jacket to one person. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi.  
As the person's body shifts for Sakusa to get a proper glance at their face, his eyes tremble. 

You. Of course, it was you.

Your own eyes catch a figure in the distance, holding your hands tight against the green-ribbon that was perfectly curled to land on top of another gift and with sparkles that seemed to refract every piece of light across the room. As you crouched to meet the eyes of the man, everything seems to fall in place when Sakusa Kiyoomi traces every curve of your body to the twinkle of curiosity in your eyes.

“Hey--- Sakusa Kiyoomi? It seems I have something that belongs to you.” You laugh off with a playful tone that lingers on the tip of your tongue, the same mouth he’s dreamed of kissing for years in middle school.

With all the things he can respond with, Sakusa feels like a thirteen-year-old again, idiotic and wishing to be invisible.

Please don't sit by him; he’s allergic to beauty.  
-

Call Sakusa the definition of stupidity, but he’s always seen eyes as the most precious gems of life, windows to understanding the human mind that lies behind and the window of understanding the world itself through the various shades of new wonders. The fascination of knowing what reality was tangible, what step could be preventing another danger—his face would morph with disbelief and happiness, wowed by the possibility of missing all the messes that lay in front of him from the use of an eye’s catch of light. Avoiding the unwanted hands of another strange-pervert on the street to seeing his parents paint their faces with kisses that were marked with red-lipstick on dress-shirt collars, Sakusa had a fondness for sight allowing him to avoid typical germs, viruses spread by the touch of man. 

The addition of being gifted with perfect vision was not seeing the words on the textbook that lingered with knowledge or seeing an award in calligraphy that detailed his name, but your bright simper in the corner of the classroom making the seconds and days fall into place. 

He’s watched you from elementary school—and not in the creepy-stalkerish type of manner but instead with the peaks of curiosity on how you always land on the bottoms of your feet, how you can always scramble to pick yourself back up. Every time you have gotten kicked down and have had your legs scattered in bruises, your hand simply brushed over the marks as you raised another to request an ice-pack to stop the swelling.

You do all that—defend him, run away with him and hold each wound for him—for what? Sakusa does not even save you from your messes; you only save him from the troubles of life. Slowly, he sees how his heart begins to rip at not being enough for you—never the caretaker but instead only the worry in your life. 

You are the one who packs the extra alcohol wipes as he lets you wash over his scrape, lets you fiddle with the bandage and roll up his pant-leg. He lets you see another paper cut that appears on Sakusa’s skin, letting you—and only you—to grab a small band-aid and mark his skin with a kiss after.

Did the kiss numb the pain? No, not really. Did the kiss help regardless? Yes, somehow because he instead is thinking about how rosy your cheeks seem to be and can feel the heat that rises up his own neck, hoping the blush can wash away the wound. 

The problem is not you caring for him but when Sakusa sees you in pain. 

He’s not like you, unable to operate when seeing your leg slip and fall down the curb as the apple you held falls out of your grasp. Unlike you, he freezes, frozen in not knowing how to be like you when Sakusa should be your hero. He’s seen you care for him numerous times, seen you patiently dab water over every cut and wash away the dirt on his legs past any number tangible. 

He thinks of all the possibilities imaginable, supplies himself the information on what to do in times of danger and need, but he does not move as he watches your leg be limp with pain. He watches because he freezes from how the dirt taints your blood, thinking of all the possible bacteria that could have seeped into your bloodstream. All the potential viruses, the germs that enter the course of your blood make him stop.

What does he do? Can he even save you at that point? You have so many germs that contaminate you that he might get hurt as well.  
Your blood spilling from each scrape makes his eyes ponder. The blood could splatter on his own skin—did he pack an extra set of gloves to waste for such an occasion? Did he put enough alcohol wipes in his backpack today? Did he make sure to bring an extra pair of pants—

As you get ushered in the nurse's office from the rest of their classmates discovering the same scrapes on your legs, Sakusa should feel better that you can be safe in the confines of the white office allowing you to rest your head against uncomfortable beds. 

But Sakusa loathes himself more, loathes himself knowing that the moment was his time to be selfless, to work past his boundaries. The moment was meant to be an indicator of your change on him, how his love for you surpassed his terror of all germs. The time was his day to be selfless, to be a second, a fraction of the sacrifice he could do in return.

He tried, he worried relentlessly on what could come instead of moving his hands—hands that were gifted to bend backwards, to bend every direction needed to save the world and clutch every piece remained better than any other ordinary. However, no matter how much he tried, Sakusa could not bend back for you to be a companion when in need, never once becoming your hero, savior in times of distress when his hands forgot simple ways of function against the gritty dirts of life.

Sakusa was what his parents have often said: a coward, never the hero—he hated to admit in defeat but, yes, the great Sakusa Kiyoomi is defeated by the invisible, the small germs that roam, a spectacle he cannot even see or touch. He’s so selfish that he wants you to always protect him, to be always at his side when Sakusa cannot even protect you, seemingly like an unfair game of chess when the Queen is always taken before he can assess each square in time.

All he does, all he can think of doing is offer to stand by your side at the curb of the parking lot as you are shivering against the cold, shivering from the air that brushes your shoulder instead of his comforting pats. You two stare back at one another, not knowing who should go first when tongues are being bitten back as another gale swoops to make the flush of school papers be carried by the trail.

And as you cry in your hands, knowing Sakusa is not the best friend who wraps his arms around you and whispers sweet nothings to make the world wash away, you are greeted with the warmth of his old, stretched-out middle school jacket that seems to make the world gleam a bit brighter for a millisecond. 

“You keep it.”  
To you, that moment is enough, flooding your senses as Sakusa turns away to hide another hint of blush that threatens to hit you with another sense of warmth and butterflies.

-

Akihiro yelps at the sight of Sakusa’s eyes being laced with dread. 

“Look! I found someone old like you, Omi!” 

Sakusa tries to stop his face from morphing into betrayal and disgust at the young boy's words. 

“Right Aki! Somehow your Omi looks more old today with that wrinkle on his forehead.”

“Yeah, oh no—Omi, do you need to get plastic surgery?”

Oh, come on, Sakusa is not that ugly. Sure, he’s no Lev Haiba, but Sakusa has had a handful of compliments from his grandmother remarking about his height. Being at least 6 inches taller than you was an additional bonus—you seemed to be so small and sweet that he could carry you in one arm if granted. How you wore Sakusa’s old jacket had his heart swelling, set in flames and charred from the pits of Dante’s Inferno. 

Focus on the task at hand, dumbass.  
“No, Akihiro, I do not need it, thank you very much. Wrinkles are from stress, and you making me chase you everywhere wasn’t helping.”

What’s worse: the fact that Akihiro appears to be at the verge of tears or how you are pouting at Sakusa, showing disapproval of his chosen words. 

“Aki, honey, Sakusa doesn’t want you hurt because he loves you a lot,” you offer to lighten the mood.

Akihiro’s eyes are softening and giddily pass between you and Sakusa, “Really!? Does he forgive me for spilling milk on his carpet?”

“Yes, Aki, he does.”

Newsflash, no Sakusa does not but how your eyes dart at him to telepathically say “shut the fuck up” allows Sakusa to not slip out the words lingering on his tounge.

“Does he forgive me for ruining the printer?”

No—  
“Yes, you were trying to make a Christmas card for him sweetie.” You reason with Akihiro, “He knows you were trying to do your best.”

Akihiro pauses for a moment and holds his words with remorse. “Does he forgive me for spilling the hand sanitizer on the couch?” 

Not really to be frank—the couch was an expensive gift from Bokuto on Sakusa’s twenty-first birthday to signify the joy of drinking together. 

You even wince at the words, but offer advice rather than putting salt on the wound. “Aki, it’s about loving you more than loving the things you mess up or break. He can buy a new couch, but he can’t buy a new Akihiro at the supermarket.”

The sad part about what you had mentioned was true. He’s awestruck on how you can appear in his life again for only about an hour and still barge into his life while acting entitled to his personal information.

He left you for 4 years in high school, discarded any reminder of middle school and any sign of your friendship to seem like fabrications of the past. Another four years had been spent away, whisking his life into press conferences and volleyball games, being so sure you had forgotten his name, his face, or the way his eyes would always linger to you in class.

He was so confident on you forgetting that he forgot how (time and time again) you managed to warp time and find an odd way back to one another, always finding the shortest threads that connect the missing dots in your memory.

As you’re looking at him again with star-stricken eyes that seem to forget about the unwrapped gifts on the table and offer a little reindeer sticker to Akihiro, Sakusa cannot handle you.

Instead of confronting the unresolved emotions he has had for years on years, instead of confronting his crush and unrequited feelings after you forgot everything, Sakusa takes Akihiro’s hand, slaps money down the table, and leaves you shocked at how he dashes away faster than the speed of light.

You shrug your shoulders at his absence to a coworker. 

“I’ve seen him before. He was really cute and reminded me of someone. Wish I was able to catch his number, but I can’t now, I guess.”  
-

Sakusa has always been good at ignoring his feelings, ignoring whatever troubles his mind and following through on what needs to be done. Emotions often cloud true judgement, clouding the success needed to follow one’s path towards victory and fame. 

He justified his fancy high-school acceptance onto the elite volleyball team as to why he left, why he had escaped everything he feared and why he abandoned any sense of his past years on the sidewalks with you. You were graduating from middle school soon, so what was the point in continuing something, a relationship or friendship when the both of your paths would diverge? When you were in an accident that left you without any memory of him?

The accident you were in was a mess, everything being in tears and pain. People remained in messes at your limp body on the bed and how you seemed to lose yourself in the anesthesia, forgetting the past and present with the click of a button. You had forgotten about nearly everything, names, faces, the touch of loved ones—almost everything seemed to be a blank page in your mind.

Blank—not a mess, without any scribbles of emotion—would seem like something Sakusa yearned, like a fresh journal waiting for him to make new stories, memories with.

But every new journal, new page made Sakusa worry: was he going to ruin you? Was Sakusa going to be a page in your mind you always flip to in happiness to remember or in annoyance like when you were skimming through a textbook before tests? Was he going to be another pencil in your mind, replaceable as you erase any memory of him or was he going to become a pen stain on your paper that lingers with white-out?

Would you even remember him—was he going to be a page you place a bookmark on or a page that has been dog-earred?

He’s too scared to know, so, instead of being your best friend that sits alongside your parents in the hospital who brings gifts or rose petals to brighten the room and your day, Sakusa leaves as quickly as the moment he entered your life.

As tragic as being a middle schooler in a hospital bed was, Sakusa never left you flowers after the first visit. He never left you any notes in school marking your friendship, never left you any clue that you meant something to him. He never showered you with pictures of your adventure together, never considered making his classmates sign a card passing you well-wishings on your family and health. He never attempted to hug you ever again when you were sad, never held you to the point that your heart wanted to combust. 

All because he was too scared—too scared to know if he still meant something even to you when high on anesthesia. He was what everyone has always said: a coward—too fearful and scared to be the hero. 

And the thought makes him bitter because—everytime you rang his name, called him to ask what he was to you in the past—he ignored, too frozen with mixed fear and dread to speak.

All he does do—to move at least—is move away to a different city that makes his mother remark about the new penthouse they bought and the flourishing oil companies sprouting from the bustling streets. He does not leave any mark, any thread left to signify that, yes, Sakusa is in love with you to know his high-maintenance schedules, routines, and hand washing rituals do not have to be your burden any longer.

Why pain you the suffering of knowing his existence when you can be blissfully unaware, unaffected by his germaphobic tendencies and idiosyncrasies? Why make you worry so much about the sanitizer that rests in your hands when your head should be resting on the hospital bed? Why make you set up a chair beside that same bed when your family is going to spend more time preparing for his arrival than you lying still?

Why?  
-

“Hey Sakusa—is it? My parents said we used to talk a lot and that I used to talk about you all the time. Can we talk and work things out?”  
“Hi, again! I remembered something about us: we used to go with your mom, and she would rope us into jazz concerts. I hate jazz… but I did find some of the newer jazz concert tickets your mom invited us to!”  
“Hey, I remembered something: did I feed orange juice to our math teacher’s stupid spider plant? Loke visited me laughing about the time I purposefully snipped the leaves off and fed it soda once when she gave me a B on another math exam the other day… She even came the day before visiting and offered me her spider plant as a temporary friend—I was so embarrassed.”  
“I was cooking with my grandma the other day, but she yelled at me for eating the noodles after we stir-fried them! It made me think about how we both bought Cup Noodles together—maybe we could do that again some time?"  
“Sakusa, you could always talk to me—you know? I know that you’ve been avoiding me and not responding to my texts after everything, but you could just say ‘hi’... I was thinking about how we used to watch Jackie Chan movies and tried to learn Mandarin—somehow the teacher put me with the exchange students today!”  
“Hey, Sakusa: congratulations on getting into that fancy high school of yours! I wanted to say I’m so proud of you—sure, it’s been a while, but I know that you still love me!”  
As you hear the click of your fingers against your phone and see yourself deleting messages more times than the number of stars you once counted on your patio with Sakusa, your heart slightly pricks with the reminder that was always etched in your memory: Sakusa likes washing away his messes.  
-

Friends is a strong term to refer to his teammates—they are more like acquaintances that happen to take his phone and boost their team Candy Crush Saga scores. More importantly, his teammates are his personal pieces of embarrassment, people who purposefully post pictures of the time Sakusa drunkenly serenaded Atsumu. 

Some days Sakusa can see videos of him being smacked by a volleyball resurface on Twitter, seeing the moment he confessed all his secrets to a random stranger on a first class plane as Hinata snickered in the background. They are people who offer love advice, offer the best advice to Sakusa as he has been informed by Bokuto, “date people who get on your dick, not your nerves.”  
The reveal Sakusa’s new secret crush comes in exchange for Bokuto and Hinata to watch over Akihiro or die doing both alone (via taking care of Akihiro and confronting his emotions with you). 

“You know, they probably hate yer guts for ignoring them for the past eight years,” offers Atsumu as Hinata’s eyes widen with shock and his hands move quickly to gently slap Atsumu.

Hinata comfortingly gives a look of sympathy, “Omi-kun, they do not hate you. Atsumu is just being rude since his girlfriend left town.”

“Some people need pussy to survive—sad how Atsumu is failing the universe in human development.”

“Hey Sakusa? Blink twice if you’re single and lonely, asshole.”

Bokuto stands up, halts the fighting to prepare the master plan.

“Omi-Omi, stop. Stop killing Atsumu for leaking your number on Snapchat—we are trying to save your love life here!” Bokuto mentions as he is holding back Atsumu’s fists that are threatening to punch. 

Sakusa quirks an eyebrow. “What about this was my love-life? We are not going anywhere with it.”

“But I thought you liked them? I thought they were like the secret pea to your pod?” Hinata reasons as he gasps at the thought of Sakusa’s life of loneliness. 

“Hinata, we don’t even know if they have a significant other or anything. They’re still cute bu—”

“You never think people are cute! It has to be like some sort of stupid fate!”

“Fate isn’t real, Atsumu.”

“It’s not real for whores like you.”

“Maybe stop trying to make your girlfriend jealous with your fans and fan-mail making trash all over the place.”

“At least people like me enough to send mail and talk with me!”

“That's because you’re practically a prostitute—ouch!" Atsumu elbowed Sakusa in the gut to cut him off mid-sentence.

-

As Sakusa hears the ring of another text notification, he swipes up for a picture.

Atsumu (2:37 PM): Is this our target XoXo24  
Sakusa angrily types back.

Sakusa (2:37 PM): Stop stalking random ass strangers—you’re embarrassing me in public. -15/10 for the low budget porn-like stalking vibe.  
Atsumu (2:45 PM): Rude!! Most people say “thanks for the hit” ungrateful ass.  
Sakusa is all in for getting murdered right now—it would probably be saving him from his current embarrassment. 

When he is being shuffled into the Target store, through the shelves of pungent perfumes and beauty consultants waving concealers to customer faces, Sakusa is greeted by the unfortunate sight of you at the wrapping booth chatting along with another coworker.

Even worse: you notice his presence and the box that lays in his gloved-hands, asking to be stuffed with tissue paper and wrapped by the glittery ribbons that glisten in the cheap store-lights.

“Back so soon?” you tease as your coworkers giggle and move away from the previous conversation.

-

“You know, a heavy portion of the donations are coming from the Sakusa Kiyoomi!” squeals your coworker, Hitoka, as a mischievous glint shines off her eyes, and you try to hide the blush that threatens to color your cheeks. 

“Please,” Yamaguchi snickers and scoffs before crossing his arms. “You should be thanking Y/N for that. He visits almost everyday with new gifts trying to see their work schedule.”

You open your mouth in shock and slightly slap his shoulder. “I’m not the one forcing him to spend money! Plus, you could’ve told him I worked on the weekends.”

But Yamaguchi shrugs, saying, “We needed the tips anyways.” 

-

With a bit of a red-tint splatter across his face, a small “yes” is released from Sakusa, as if a show of his embarrassment for being found again in the gift-wrapping section of Target. 

“Some friends of mine are hosting a party and wanted a gift exchange,” answers Sakusa when your eyes look curiously in the box to find finely-aged wines. “And… I want the experience to be… enjoyable.”

You stop the cackle that threatens to fall, instead choosing to focus on the box and to use more of the expensive, opalescent wrapping paper. “You sounding like a motel manager.”

“Do I r-really?” questions Sakusa as his eyes widen, the stutter alarming his head more of the fool he has been acting like. 

“No, I’m playing with you, but you seem a bit stressed,” you murmur under your breath as the scissors rip the paper in an unwanted direction. “Something on your mind?”

You catch him fiddling with his hands and the hem of his shirt. 

“Do you always wrap gifts?”

You can only titter, simper a response. “It’s more of a hobby of mine--something to just keep my hands moving when I was in high school, and doing this is a small way of helping people out to offer something to families during Christmas.”

He nods in acknowledgment to say, “Well that’s very kind of you.” 

You have always been very kind.  
“A lot of people think it’s a waste of my time, that I should really be working on something else than wrapping gifts, but I think allowing some donations to come through in Christmas is better than nothing.”

“Nothing’s a waste of time if it means something to you.”  
And that moment, that exact point in time became when you finally allowed yourself to offer a proper, knowing smile. You knew who always said those words to you before in middle-school whenever life seemed to twist downwards, who would always say the same words now when you needed a simple reason to continue your late-night shifts.

“Yeah, I think so too.”

-

“True gentlemen jokingly insult ladies to make them think we’re hotter and funnier than yer actually are,” Atsumu whispers into the headpiece-mic with a slight glee. 

“Ignore, ‘Sumu---” When flipping fuck did Osamu get here. “Continue the conversation and ask them about their interests.”

Sakusa internally nods his head--Osamu is the one who owns a successful restaurant after all, and Osamu probably had to charm his way to reach the top.

“So--what do you think is the hottest sport?” quiries Sakusa as you are digging in the back for an assortment of bows to show him. 

He wants to scream, momentarily die for a bit, and threaten to sue Atsumu and Bokuto for sparking the idea of connecting with you again. What is Sakusa even doing? He hates---loathes---the thought of small talk and the fact he is going beyond his boundaries for you? Embarrassing.

You ponder a bit before shrugging and placing a bow on top of another present while naturally replying, “Hm, I think hockey looks pretty hot.”

An indignant “What the fuck?” rings from Atsumu at the corner of the gift-card section before Sakusa can respond, revealing the whereabouts of his teammate. 

“This is disrepect on volleyball!”

“Oh my lord, ‘Sumu, I’m telling mom that you can’t shut the fuck up.”

“I get basketball or swimming or even football or some shit. Golf is debatable on how sexy that one can be--you could even argue that tennis is hot. But Hockey!? Bitches be wearing 20 extra pounds, and you looked at them to think ‘Yes, Jesus, yes I would risk it all for an ice puck’.” He stops to breathe, “She has bad taste, Omi. I can’t let you, my own best friend, go through with this.”

The fact that Atsumu is on the verge of tears gives Sakusa a brain-splitting headache because Atsumu grabs Sakusa's shoulder, having sheer sadness and pain laced with every move.

“Y/N’s not invited to the wedding.”

“What’s going on here?”

“Go away, Y/N. At this rate you’re also not getting invited to the rave.”

-

“Well, I mean I thought you were always pretty hot.” You flippantly offer as you walked with Sakusa to his car with Atsumu and Osamu trailing behind, saying that your shift of volunteer work was nearing its end anyways.

Wow--Sakusa cannot believe that thirteen-year-old him decided to like Hellen Keller 2.0. You clearly had lost sight along with your memory in the accident, so Sakusa can only offer you a dubious glance spelling out his doubt.

You groan and play with the scarf wrapped around your neck. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Whoops, apparently his complex of thinking he was worse than everyone else yet better than half the population did not click today. 

From the outside, Sakusa guesses he qualifies in the sort-of pretty scale. Thankfully a lot of blind fans have informed him about his radiant smile being exactly alike to Atsumu’s (which might not be considered a compliment looking back on the memory). Regardless, if he held the plastic Target mirror backwards, he would probably pass off as beautiful. 

And now you are looking back at Sakusa--for what? To mock him? To remind him of his 13-year-old mistakes that were purely from the rush of the moment and without any reason driving his motives?

“You know, I remember more than it seems or whatever you are thinking of.”

Perhaps the lights are showing more than what you are assuming, but you can see how Sakusa’s pupils grow bigger with curiosity and interest hanging off your words.

“How much is in your mind then?”  
You hum out a response, an answer that has been his greatest dread and hope for years.

“Little things, like the time you said we would always stick together and how you made me promise to be there.”

“Oh, really?” Sakusa asks, silently scampering, searching for the right answers. How much is Sakusa really on your mind when he was so sure, so confident at the idea that you would have forgotten him and that you had gradually thought of him as a simple spot in your life wiped away after.

You begin and continue on without any need for an response. “Like the time you gave me your jacket, or like the time you gave me a bunch of lavenders from your mom’s garden.”

“Or how you always forced me to help you wipe down the benches and how I didn’t mind if it was a chance to spend time with you.”

“Or when I tried to get you a rose but scratched my arm, so you had to call the teacher and wouldn’t leave my side until your nanny checked it out too.”

“... Or how you liked fountain pens and had a small collection of them. I think I bought you a cheap pack from the dollar store, and you still used them.”

“Also that time you used to put post-it notes on my desk asking me what my favorite snacks were before we became friends---that’s when I knew that I liked you.” 

“Everything came back eventually,” you conclude, trying to halt your pulse from going into palpitations at every word that threatens to jump with your heart. 

And when your’s jumps from terror at everything being said, please catch Sakusa’s heart that is launching out of his stomach and the butterflies that seem to be fluttering faster in the confined space. You liked him? Plain Sakusa who chose to break your heart when he ripped himself away from your life, to save you from his own fears?

You are groaning again at your small confession. “You could always say something. It would really help to sooth the awkward tension—”

“You liked me? You liked acne-faced Sakusa who was lonely and accidentally offered you a peanut-butter sandwich when you were allergic?”

“Well, I liked you before you left me.”  
Maybe that moment was suppose to be the time in his life when his one and only wish was to voluntarily become the next Jimmy Neutron, strap a rocket to his ass and fly the fuck away. And maybe even shout 'gotta blast' in your face when the conversation has been everything Sakusa’s been dreading (and hoping) for in the past five years.

But he chooses something different, to reluctantly reveal more than Sakusa has ever done before because the effect you had on him, from the way you make him weaker when knowing some piece of him remained in your mind.

“It was because… I was scared that you might’ve left me in the end, that I might’ve meant nothing to you when you didn’t even know your name at the time. I was scared that you had forgotten about me because I never saved you when you needed me to. I never was able to defend you, or be there for you.”

He pauses. “I was so scared that I would be a burden to your new life, and I was scared that you would hate me if I intruded. I wanted to make your life easier without you needing to defend me or all my battles with people.”

“I wanted to make your life better even if it meant losing you, and that wasn’t the healthiest thing to do, to push you out without any of your say.”

For what it seems like forever, Sakusa looks into your eyes properly to finally confront all his fears, to prove his parents wrong that he is done being a coward.

“I know things are like this because of me, and I don’t know how things can get better. But I like you now, I am willing to change, and ask for a do-over---without Akihiro, without Atsumu or Osamu, and without Target in the background.”

You let out the breath that has been holding in you for what feels like an ever-lasting moment, let out the stream of worries and aches that have been held in your hands for eternities. 

You want to release every emotion that has pestered your thoughts, your head but can only go slow.

“Well, you have been avoiding me for the past eight years, but I can’t say I’ve been any better. I always wanted to say something back you know.” You chuckle and gently bump his side, not noticing how the walk to the car seems longer than usual. “So we are both fools because I never sent those messages I always wanted you to see.”

You glance at the stars and think how Christmas Eve is on the corner, how all your other corners and edges in life have seemed to wash away for a millisecond. 

“...But we can try. I might not have all the pieces, but I think we can start over.” 

And for a short minute, Sakusa cries after the years that have prolonged the confession, after all the nights he spent wasting and wondering if you wanted to kiss away every minute of pain that hit his skin. 

You wipe away his tears like the many times before from when you both were middle schoolers.

“I thought you promised to never cry?” You jokingly laugh off with Sakusa’s smile that seems to make the stars drift away from the pearly beauty.

“Well, today’s special.”

As you shiver from the new puff of air that fiddles down the streets, he hands you his jacket now, and your stomach fills with a new type of warmth. 

fin.


End file.
